Heartbreak Beat

by Elle Greco

Jett rolled her eyes. “And we all know that leads to wrinkles.”

  Presley narrowed her eyes at Jett. “Shut up. It does.”

  I sniffled. “So, what are you saying? Satan’s Sisters is breaking up?”

  “I’m not saying that,” she said. “I’m saying I think we need to consider our options.”

  I looked at Jett. “Do you agree?”

  “I don’t disagree,” she said, taking my other hand. “I think it’s something we all need to think about.”

  “I’m not saying break up,” Presley said quickly. “But I’m saying maybe hiatus? Then you can work on Rogue Nation, give them your full attention. Jett can go to school. I can focus on a solo project.”

  Unable to keep them back any longer, tears streamed down my face. “Hiatus means break up.”

  “Hiatus does not mean break up,” Jett said. “Just explore our other interests.”

  “But music’s been our life,” I argued through sobs.

  “Exactly,” Jett said. “And sometimes it hasn’t been all that good to us.”

  “Don’t bring our father into this,” I started.

  “It’s kind of impossible not to,” Jett said. “Mom was barely older than Presley when she was saddled with three kids and a failing musician husband with a drug problem. Music was not good to us.”

  “But it ended up being,” I argued.

  “Maybe for you,” Jett said. “Maybe for me too. But I am curious to see what my life is like without it.”

  We sat for a minute, silence stretching between us like a canyon.

  Presley’s voice broke through the silence. “So, about you and Dion—”

  “I don’t want to talk about it,” I said, wiping under my eyes with the back of my hand.

  “Dion’s going to break your heart if you’re not careful,” Jett said. “Like father, like son.”

  “Now, wait a minute,” Presley said. “Dion and Vince are nothing alike.”

  Jett raised her eyebrows. “Please.”

  “You just don’t know him,” Presley said, crossing her arms. “You never gave him a chance.”

  “What the hell are you talking about?” Jett asked. “Gave him a chance to do what?”

  “I don’t know. You just never bothered to get to know him,” Presley snapped.

  “I’m not interested in a replacement father,” Jett said, her spine straightening.

  “He can be a friend. Did you consider that?”

  “Nope, not even a little bit.”

  “God, Jett, you are so damn frigid sometimes.”

  “And this is exactly why we need a break,” Jett said, scrambling to her feet. She stalked to the bathroom and slammed the door.

  “I swear, she just does this shit to poke the bear,” Presley said with a sigh. Then she laid her hand on my leg and squeezed. “It’ll all be okay, Nik. It’s just a break. Nothing’s forever. You know that.”

  Then she got up and followed Jett.

  “I thought Dion and I could be,” I whispered.

  18

  “And we got it,” Rodney said from the control room. “That take was perfect, Nikki, just perfect.”

  I held up my drumsticks in response to the producer and started climbing out from behind my kit. When I cleared the kick drum, I bent at the waist and stretched out my back. The stool in the recording studio was awful.

  The door to the tiny room flew open, and an animated Dominic Swine bounded in.

  “That kicked some serious ass,” Dom yelled, flashing me the devil sign with both hands. “You’re a beast on those things. Rock and fucking roll.”

  “Thanks, Dom. It’s a kick-ass song.”

  “You know it,” he said. “You want to hit the Roustabout with us tonight?”

  “Nah, I’m heading home,” I said.

  “Come on, Nikki-Nik, you always say that. Today’s the last day to record. Hit the Roust with us. Puh-leez?”

  I took him in, his six-foot-three body in skinny black jeans that hung loose on his lanky frame, paired with a Spinal Tap T-shirt two sizes too small. He had a shock of hair dyed blue-black that stuck up at all angles and a pierced nose that was too large for his slim face. Everything about him looked stretched, even the sleeves of tattoos that covered both arms.

  Still, he had a way with the ladies. Or so I heard. Panic Station was one of the biggest bands on the nuvo punk scene. Lead singers always got the bulk of the action. It was the charisma.

  “Dude, I live in Venice,” I said by way of an excuse.

  “I’ll pay for your Uber,” he offered. “Come on, come on, come on. Come out and get fucked up with us.”

  “I’d still have to come back for my car.”

  “I’ll pay for your return Uber tomorrow.”

  “Dom—”

  “Nik, come on. You need to come hang, just for one beer. Then you can split.” He folded his hands together as if in prayer. “Please say yes. Please say yes. Please say yes.”

  “Fine,” I grumbled, which made him jump up and down and clap. “Just don’t blame me if I cramp your style.”

  “I got style for days, Nikki-Nik. Ain’t no way you can cramp it,” he said, turning and heading for the door. “Now, let’s goooooo.”

  He gave that final word his trademark scream, and I braced my ears against the sound.

  He twisted around to look at me. “In all seriousness, Rogue Nation’s loss was our fucking gain. This album is going to kick ass thanks to you.”

  “Thanks, Dom, but you’ve got a great band,” I said. “I’m the lucky one that Patrick decided to finish his PhD.”

  “I cried when he told me, you know,” Dom said. “But I understand now, it was kismet. Patrick is a good drummer. You, my friend, are epic.”

  And with that, he left, ducking down to get his hair under the doorframe.

  I shoved my drumsticks in my back pocket, picked my way around the soda cans and fast-food wrappers, and exited the claustrophobic space. My cell phone came alive as soon as I cleared the door. Ramone Row Records had a signal jammer installed in the sound booth. Too many artists ruined takes by keeping their phones on. Studio costs were such that any sound fuckup in the booth was prohibitively expensive.

  I pulled my phone out of my pocket and saw I had eight texts from Presley, five from Jett, and fifteen from Dion.

  Dion.

  Fuck.

  I stared at my phone. I hadn’t heard shit from him since I walked off the Rogue Nation tour two months ago. Not like he needed to report in to me. It wasn’t like we were anything to each other anymore. Or ever. I’d heard from Presley who’d heard from Vince that the tour had been a bit of a bust. Rafe—who barely tolerated Johnny Frieze in the LA clubs—could not play with him on the road. Maybe it was the close confines of the bus, but I suspected it had more to do with Jett. There was a mutual respect between Rafe and Jett that had blossomed on the road. I wouldn’t go so far as to call them friends, but if Frieze was shit-talking Jett, like I suspected, it would cause a rift.

  I leaned against the wall in the hallway and decided to ignore Dion and checked the texts from my sisters.

  Call me.

  That demanding little nugget was text number one from Presley.

  Not kidding, Nik. You need you to call me NOW.

  There was no snit in the world like a Presley snit. I ignored the remaining texts from her and checked Jett’s first message.

  Girl, there is some bad shit swirling, and I need you to call me pronto.

  Her second text was just as troubling.

  Call me. Not Presley. Me.

  Then the third.

  And fuck Dion.

  Number four.

  Waiting…

  Final one.

  I’ll leave my phone on. FOREVER.

  Jett wasn’t prone to histrionics, so I pressed her name and hit the call button. She picked up on the third ring.

  “Dammit, Nik, where have you been?”

  “Recording at Ramone Row.”

  “Oh s
hit, they have jammers in the booth.”

  “Yup,” I said. “I walked out and got flooded with texts from you and Presley.” I paused for a second and then added, “And Dion.”

  “Yeah, well, fuck Dion,” she said, repeating her text. “You’ve got a big-ass bomb of an issue headed your way.”

  “Okay, so what’s the issue?” I asked, heading down the narrow corridor to the exit.

  “Vince is looking for you.”

  I came to a dead stop. “Vince can keep looking. I am not talking to him.” I’d blocked Vince’s number the minute we left the tour.

  “Well, then, don’t call Presley,” she said.

  “Why not?”

  “Because Vince is using her as a front to get to you.”

  “Great,” I muttered, and proceeded to stomp my way down the hall and out the door. A magnificent sunset streaked with pinks and purples greeted me on the other side. I’d spend more time enjoying it if I wasn’t seeing red myself.

  Jett’s sigh sounded like a stiff breeze in my ear. “Okay, so Rafe’s been calling me from the tour, you know—”

  “Uh-huh,” I said. Since Jett was on the phone, I had the luxury of giving an unseen eye roll, which I took full advantage of. Rafe was calling her with tour updates daily, and it pissed me off. Because Jett shared the tour updates with me, and I felt like I was missing something. I felt like I was missing everything. It felt like my life was in some sort of limbo, where I satisfied my requirements—eat, sleep, work—but didn’t actually live. It was a feeling I didn’t want to have. I was the one who begged off the tour—I shouldn’t have FOMO.

  I turned left, skirted the studio parking lot, and headed toward the corner bar.

  “Apparently, something went down the last night in Austin,” she continued, when the passenger-side door of a parked Navigator swung open. I slinked closer to the building to avoid getting hit. But a pair of legs stepped out and blocked my path.

  “Nik, we need to talk.”

  Fuck me. I knew that voice before I saw the face. It was Dion.

  I froze in place, phone plastered against the side of my face. My brain wanted me to keep the forward momentum. My heart wanted me to stop and throw my arms around him. My legs were caught in the middle, and they threatened to give out.

  So I did the only thing I knew how to do. I got pissed. I mean, Dion was supposed to be somewhere in New Mexico right now, not in the middle of downtown LA. What the hell was he doing here?

  “Is that Dion?” Jett yelled in my ear.

  “I gotta go,” I muttered into the phone, and then killed the call. “What… Why…” I shook my head to get my muddled thoughts together. “Why the hell are you here?”

  “In LA?” he asked.

  I stretched out my arm. “Yeah. In LA. And here. On the sidewalk in front of Ramone Row.”

  “We need to talk,” he said.

  My eyes narrowed. I turned on my heel and marched on toward the Roustabout. “Go back to your tour, Dion,” I called over my shoulder.

  “Not without you,” he shouted back.

  That made me come to a sudden stop. I spun around. While he didn’t look contrite exactly, he did look like shit. His overgrown blond curls hung limp to his shoulders. His eyes were sunken and circled with exhaustion. His pants were in danger of falling past his hips. The man needed a belt.

  I crossed my arms and dug in. “I’m not going back on tour.”

  “Come on, Nik, you have to,” he said.

  I pulled my head back and then shook it. “You know what’s great about being a for-hire drummer? I don’t have to do a goddamn thing.”

  Once again, I was on the move. The Roustabout was two doors away, and I definitely wanted a drink now.

  Dion’s footsteps followed me to the bar. He yanked open the door before I even reached for it. His hand went to my lower back, and he propelled me into the dimly lit space. The door closed behind us, and as my eyes adjusted to the dark, my nose was assaulted with the sour odor of old beer mingling with the sweet smell of an air freshener trying to hide it. In other words, a dive bar.

  “Nikki!” Dom’s high-pitched wail rattled the glasses stacked behind the bar.

  “One second,” Dion responded for me. I elbowed him in the ribs. So he grabbed my hand and steered me to a booth in the corner.

  “Holy shit, is that Dion Davis?” someone yelled from the back.

  I slid into the booth and dropped my forehead to the table. Regret was immediate when my head landed in something sticky. I raised it back up.

  “The answer’s still no, Dion,” I said, wiping at the muck now stuck to my forehead with the edge of my T-shirt.

  “Come on, listen,” he said, sliding into the booth beside me.

  “Like I have a choice,” I muttered, inching closer to the wall to put some space between us.

  “Johnny Frieze sucks,” he said.

  “No shit,” I returned.

  “Nik, I mean he really sucks,” he said. “He’s got no finesse, he’s loud, he’s fucking up the beats.”

  “Why are you even surprised by this, Dion?”

  “I know,” he said. “But he’s never been this aw.” He leaned back and dug into his pocket, pulling out his phone and AirPods, which he held out to me.

  “Dion, this is stupid,” I said.

  “Just listen to this. Please.”

  I took the wireless headphones and shoved them in my ears, giving him a scowl to drive home my unhappiness. He started swiping through the apps, found what he was looking for, and pressed play.

  It was hard to hear over the din of the bar. I picked up his phone and adjusted the volume. Rogue’s B-side track “You Bring the Pain” played. The beat-heavy song was almost unrecognizable. A twinge of guilt cracked its way through my anger.

  “Ouch,” I said, plucking the AirPods from my ears.

  He made a pained face. “Devlin recorded that last night. We’re getting punished on social media.”

  I stared at the filthy table. “The answer’s still no.”

  “What about one night?” he asked.

  I looked up. “What do you mean, one night?”

  He reached over and grabbed my hand. “Grimm is pulling us off the road.”

  I yanked my hand away. “So your problem is solved.”

  “He’s sending us to Vegas to open for Anthem. Alice is pushing for us to drop ‘Ruined’ the same day.”

  “What!” This came out in a yell, and the entire bar turned towards us.

  “You good, Nikki-Nik?” Dom called over from the bar.

  “She’s fine,” Dion barked.

  “Damn, dude, take a fucking pill,” Dom shot back.

  Dion’s hands closed into fists, and he started to rise out of the booth. I stretched my body across his, forcing his ass to drop back into the seat. Dom’s ass was skinny, but he was raised in a mosh pit. Dion was way too pretty for that.

  “You’re a shitty liar, Dion. Anthem is not on tour,” I hissed out.

  “You’re right, they’re not,” he said, his body limp under mine. “It’s a special one-night-only concert. For charity.”

  “Charity?” I murmured. The proximity of Dion’s body made me a little heady. Snap out of it. I pulled myself off of him. “Since when has Vince been charitable?”

  “Since Rogue Nation is about to crash and burn.”

  Dion looked miserable. I pinched the bridge of my nose and tried to ignore the ache growing in my chest.

  “Dion, Rogue is not going to crash and burn.”

  “Not if you come back. Not if we release ‘Ruined.’”

  My body turned white-hot, and I slapped my hands on the table, not caring that my palms landed in filth. “Fuck you, Dion. Manipulate much?”

  “No, fuck yourself, Nikki,” he bit out.

  My head snapped up. “Excuse me?”

  “You’re the one who walked away. From the band. From me.” That last part came out kind of choked.

  “Please. I thought you’d be
happy. No chicks on tour, remember? We were cramping your style.”

  His pained face twisted into disbelief. “You think you did it for me? You thought I’d be happy?”

  I nodded.

  His disbelief started to morph into fury. “Explain.”

  “Oh, please, is that really necessary?” I hedged.

  “I think very much so,” he said, his voice quiet.

  “I know you,” I said, my heartbeat matching the speed of the flood of words pouring out of my mouth. “I know what you’re like. What we did… you know… at the motel… and then we… you know… would have been… It was just weird, and I didn’t want you to think I wanted anything more than what it was… which, oh my God, of course was nothing…”

  He interrupted my verbal diarrhea. “Nothing?”

  My stomach pitched. “Dion—”

  “No, wait, you know what? Shut up, Nik.”

  “You can’t tell me to shut up.”

  “I just did,” he said. My eyes narrowed as I willed laser beams to shoot out and blast him. “For once in your life, Nik, would you just listen?”

  My back straightened, and I dug my nails into the filthy wooden table. “No, Dion. I’ve done plenty of listening. Listening to you get freaky with groupies, listening to you bitch about me joining your precious band. I’m done listening, Dion. Done.”

  “Nikki,” he said, but I ignored him.

  “I’m not crying over you again,” I continued. “I’m better than that. Stronger than that. I thought we had something, but obviously we didn’t. Fool me once, shame on you; fool me twice… Well, you know.”

  “What are you talking about?” he asked.

  I waved my hand at him. “I know, I know. I was the idiot for even thinking there was something between us. It won’t happen again. Trust me.”

  It was Dion’s turn to narrow his eyes.

  “What?” I snapped at him.

  “Nothing,” he said, craning his neck around the side of the high booth. He waved at the bartender and ordered two beers while I smoldered beside him. When he was finished, he turned back to me. “So, you coming to Vegas or what?”

  I blinked at him. “You can’t be serious.”

  “Jesus, Nik, you want me to beg? I’ll beg.”

  The bartender dropped two drafts on the table. Dion pushed the table back, and the beers slopped over the sides of the pint glasses. He dug into his pocket, pulled out a twenty, and handed it to the barkeep. Then he downed half his beer in one gulp. Using the bench as a step, he got on top of the table.